Rush
by Crystia
Summary: No one leaves their country on an impulse, and in context, Viktor's decision shouldn't have surprised anyone at all. (**Viktor's backstory, and an acknowledgement of Russia's stance on homosexuality)


**I wanted to give Viktor some backstory. This story is kind of personal, and I don't think it's the kind of thing to be very popular, but... Here it is.**

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ooo

Skating came naturally to Viktor.

It was like letting go of mortal woes, like becoming something more. It was gliding as though floating through air; coasting at a speed that would leave behind all his problems.

It was jumping with a precision that felt so satisfying when it clicked into place, just so, like slipping a perfectly sharpened pencil back into its box, or hitting precisely the right chord on the piano.

He grew his hair long because he loved the rush of the air whipping it around him; outside of competition, he let it fly wild in a bewitching spiral. When he went fast enough, it kept out of his eyes, and when he flew, the chaotic strands whirled about his face in his own personal, silver snowstorm.

When he went fast enough, flew high enough, he felt a rush of emotion he couldn't find elsewhere; he laughed out loud when nothing else had been able to genuinely amuse him in years. It was a giddy laugh, a ridiculous sound to anyone listening, but it didn't matter, because he laughed for himself. Skating was his; he made it so.

He enjoyed surprising people, because he enjoyed surprising himself; sometimes even he didn't know what he'd do next.

He laughed, and he flew, and the crisp air cleansed him.

He felt free.

ooo

On the day after Viktor's twenty-fourth birthday, Alexei was found beaten, with evidence of suffering torture before...

Before.

Viktor stared blankly at the ice, his coach's words washing over him. He sat on the benches on the sidelines, a place he rarely used aside from tying his laces. Normally he danced on the ice himself, or on the rare occasion he wished to observe someone else, he stood at the wall, leaning in for a better view.

"With the laws, Viktor... I am not implying anything, but you don't want to be misunderstood," Yakov continued, sounding unusually hesitant.

"Misunderstood?" Viktor asked hollowly. He hadn't even put on his skates yet. Little thirteen-year-old Yuri glided by, hair flying around him aggressively as he went faster than he maybe should.

"The hair, your style of clothes, your way of skating... I've heard rumors," Yakov said, hushed. Viktor hadn't even known it was possible for his coach to be so soft-spoken. "You're not sixteen anymore. People might misunderstand, is all that I am saying."

"Ah, I see," Viktor said, deceptively soft. "They might... misunderstand me. Like they misunderstood Alexei."

"Yes, Viktor," Yakov said apologetically, sounding faintly relieved that Viktor understood without him outright stating it.

It must be nice, to have that luxury, of having it as an unsaid whisper easily brushed aside. To not have it at the very core of who he was.

To not have anyone who wished him dead.

Alexei had no such luxury, and Viktor was so angry, that he thought to cast his aside.

"Well, maybe they didn't misunderstand at all, Yakov," Viktor snapped, for a wild moment not fearing the consequences. Or rather, he did fear, of course he did, but... maybe he simply wanted to tell one person. He wanted to tell his coach, the closest man he had to a father, and to be condemned or accepted by the one who'd essentially raised him. It wasn't bravery, so much as desperation. He didn't know what to do. He only needed this one judgement, just the one.

"Viktor-"

"Or maybe, maybe you're right! Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding," Viktor's voice went high, almost hysteric. "So tell me, were Alexei and I misunderstanding each other when I was taking his dick up my ass? I think they understand just fine, I think you're just scared of what they do with that informa-"

"Hush, Viktor!" Yakov shouted over him, drawing glances over at them; he looked panicked.

Viktor's heart pounded a crazy rhythm, his hands suddenly sweating through his gloves; he hadn't planned to tell Yakov, but he was just so scared. Not of Yakov, precisely, since he didn't think the man would purposefully hurt him, even if he didn't approve. He was fairly certain Yakov had known of his preferences, but there'd always been a 'don't ask, don't tell' mentality among Viktor and his colleagues.

But...certainly, he'd heard of victims before, he'd heard people say hateful things. Yet he'd always thought himself unstoppable, free of it all, because of his talent. What could the government, what could anyone do to him, so high off the ground? He was untouchable.

Except Alexei had been a model, and a popular one at that. And all it took was one leaked video of him in a bar with his latest fling-

"Viktor. You cannot say such things. Even you—no, especially you— cannot continue this way. You are the role model for so many children. The government—the people—will end you if the rumors are confirmed. Russia isn't ready, Viktor," Yakov seemed desperate for him to understand. "If they claim it's propaganda-"

If _what_ was propaganda? His hair, his personality? Viktor wasn't only propaganda, he was. He existed. Period.

"Viktor, please-"

Seventy-four percent of Russia thought that Viktor's existence was wrong. He knew. He'd checked the surveys.

He'd seen the videos humiliating those like him, he'd seen the violence at the gay parades, he'd heard 'faggot' and 'die' and he knew of the discrimination he mostly escaped due only to sheer talent, luck, and his international presence.

He knew Russia wasn't ready. And he'd learned he wasn't free, either. His skating no longer belonged to him, it was 'propaganda'. Apparently.

He stood to leave.

"I'll cut the hair," Viktor said quietly, slipping around his coach to walk off the rink. He pretended not to hear when Yuri glided up next to him on the other side of the wall, asking what upset him.

He left behind his skates.

ooo

After Alexei, skating felt less like freedom, and more like a release. Somewhere to express what he couldn't otherwise.

He cut his hair, and toned down his clothes. He stopped wearing flowers in his hair.

But his career drew closer to its end; he grew older with each passing day. He pushed boundaries he hadn't dared to cross before; his personality grew even flirtier, even more flamboyant. It was all brushed off as the 'quirks' of one of the 'famous', of a 'genius'.

After all, there were lines that even Viktor didn't dare erase.

When he turned twenty-seven, he ran out of surprises. His skating didn't mean freedom anymore, and the release of his frustrations repeated itself. It was the same laws, the same people, the same beliefs.

His mother still spent too much money and his father still drank too much vodka. Yakov still told him to tone it down; Yuri still worked to surpass him and likely would.

He was bored.

He tried desperately to grasp at the old rush he felt; he tried to force the adrenaline into his veins when he jumped; he paid extra attention to the air chilling his face and told himself to feel refreshed. He couldn't quite remember the feeling anymore; there wasn't a word for it that he could think of in English or Russian, it was like freedom and exhilaration and-

And he was forgetting it. He was even forgetting the memory of it.

His performances remained technically perfect, but he lacked the emotion for it; he suspected himself of falling into a depression. He hid it from the world. It wasn't difficult, just...lonely. Dull.

It felt like something in him had finally broken.

He stayed home more and more often, until one day, change finally came on an early Saturday afternoon, while he faked sick to escape a social engagement.

His phone pinged, and idly he opened the video, picking apart the technique of the man imitating his program and-

And at some point he stopped analyzing the technique and simply _watched_.

It was the first time he'd regained that particular feeling, that feeling of flying, in years.

The eternity of depression faded, just for a moment, and the contrast took his breath away. When the video ended, he felt the depression seep back in, but-

He bought a plane ticket impulsively, before he could change his mind, before the apathy could creep back and steal away the rush.

He was tired of feeling depressed, and had been for a long time. He wanted to get his love for skating back, he suddenly wanted it so badly he could cry. He laughed instead.

This man made him feel like he could do it.

ooo

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 **I researched laws in Russia and the public opinion, but if I need to make corrections, just let me know.**

 **I'd love to hear from you, even to just chat about the show. I don't have too many friends in the fandom yet. :)**


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